Page 39 of The Shadow King's Brother

“It’s… it’s not like that,” she says. She takes a shaky breath. “I...I just don’t...” She trails off as if she is unable to form the words.

“We should talk, Mom,” I say. “We can’t keep pretending, not anymore. We can’t keep living like this.”

She leans forward. “I’ve just been worried about you,” she murmurs, her hand going across the table. “Are you pleased there? In that world? The De Lucas.”

I shrug and hold her gaze.

My mother takes a shaky breath. She looks at me. “Do you think that’s a life for you? Don’t you see that you will never be first? His so-called business will be number one, always. Do you ever think what will come next?”

“You don’t know Elio—He’s quit—”

“But I do. Maybe not him, but I know hiskind.”

For the first time, her question makes me hesitate. I frown, and my hand lays without action on the table. How does she know? How can she tell my buried doubts better than I can?

“Elio and those men around you… are they good for you?” she adds.

The words hang there like ice.Are they?

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, I see past the walls she keeps so carefully built up.

“I... I don’t know how to talk to you, Vickie,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes.

It’s rare to see my mother cry, and it shakes me to my core.

“You never tried.”

“I don’t know how to even begin to talk about what happened to your father. I’m not good at this. I never was. Your father was good at talking—”

I bite my lip, and we sit there in silence for a while. Then, slowly, carefully, she reaches across the table and takes my hand. I squeeze her hand back in a fleeting moment of connection, but then, I retract, suddenly, almost too fast, the small touch too much to handle right now.

I can’t do this. Not right now.

“Mom, listen,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended, glancing at my watch and faking an appointment in my head. “I need to go.”

“Do you have to?” she asks.

“Mmmhmm,” I say and force a smile.

I can’t handle this. Her. It’s like something is vibrating inside me—adrenaline, nervousness, anger, maybe even some distorted hope, I can’t tell—and it’s driving me mad. I need to leave.

Get out of here. Breathe, think.

We hug before leaving, but it’s stiff and uncertain. Neither of us knows how to make it right. As I pull away, she reaches for my hand, her fingers tight, her gaze sharper than before. For a moment, she isn’t my mother—she’s someone else.

“Victoria, please…” Her voice cracks, and something vulnerable flashes in her eyes. “Please come back to us. So you won’t regret it.”

She presses a card into my palm. “Call her. She’ll be waiting.”

I glance down at the card. It’s the name and address of a therapist. The word burns in my chest.

A shrink, really?

I flip it over, barely skimming the words. ‘Call the number, and we’ll help with what ails.’

Anger surges, hot and quick. I ball the card in my fist, the paper crinkling between my fingers. Without thinking, I toss it into the nearest bin, the small act of defiance more satisfying than I want to admit.

“Do all mothers drive their kids mad?” I mutter, shaking my head as I turn for the door.

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